


The Night at the River

by starlightwalking



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (and other tensions), 2nd Chapter:, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arafinwean Week 2019, Canon Compliant, Cousin Incest, First Time, Guilt, Haiku, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nolofinwean Week 2019, Poetry, Prophetic Dreams, Re-embodied elves, Resolved Sexual Tension, Self-Hatred, Unresolved Tension, not quite explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-07-12 12:35:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19946263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightwalking/pseuds/starlightwalking
Summary: That was when Findaráto realized that when Turukáno said "thank you," what he really meant was "I love you."And (much, much later): "Thankyou," Findaráto repeats. "I know what you mean by that, Turno."





	1. Findaráto

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That Princess Bride paraphrase line is just TOO GOOD for me to pass up using it as the summary. I'm not sorry at all.
> 
> I can't believe this is my first fic for these two, they have been my soul-consuming rarepair for YEARS. You can read my thoughts on them [here](https://arofili.tumblr.com/post/182977523132) and [here](https://arofili.tumblr.com/post/185326205007), if you'd like a primer on this ship before reading the fic.
> 
> I wrote this for Arafinwëan Week 2019! Yes, it's late, I know, but the party isn't over til I _say_ it's over! ...right? Anyway, this was for Day 2: Finrod and Day 7: Legacy. This is one of two parts, and it will be completed in a few weeks for Nolofinwëan Week 2019 ;)
> 
> Set, obviously, during Finrod and Turgon's fateful camping trip by the river. Pre-Quenya ban, and only 50 years after the arrival of the Noldor in Beleriand, so Quenya names are used throughout.
> 
> Also, LaCE? Never heard of her
> 
> ETA 8/24/19: I can't believe that I forgot to link the fic that hooked me on this pairing and definitely inspired my interpretation of them that led to this fic! It's called [The Condensed Silmarillion](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10874538/1/The-Condensed-Silmarillion), and it is on FFN, but you should check it out anyway. It's lighthearted and fun, and it's absolutely worth the read.

The Sindar call this place Aelin-uial, the Meres of Twilight. Findaráto finds the name poetic, beautiful, full of power. As they arrive at the edges of the fens, he says this to Turukáno, who only gives the slightest shrug of his shoulder. That is Turukáno's way.

Once he would have smiled as Findaráto paused their journeys to compose a poem to the beauty of the waters, perhaps contributing a turn of phrase of his own. But that was before the Ice. Findaráto misses his quick-witted, confident Turukáno, but he accepts the person Turukáno is now. How could he not?

Findaráto does not stop, not here. The sun will soon complete its sojourn across the sky, and there will be time for poetry then. He knows that Turukáno finds comfort in his verses still, but once they stop, it is hard for him to move on. In their travels in Aman, Findaráto could not go more than a mile without stopping to admire the glorious scenery. Now, even he feels the lingering dread that if he halted, he would not be strong enough to continue.

The river flows slowly here. Findaráto and Turukáno had met Iathrim scouts at the edge of Thingol's territory, who warned them of the dangers of the fens and the tumbling falls at their edge, but Findaráto is awed by the peacefulness of the waters. He knows peril lurks beneath, snaring unwary travelers, but in this moment it is hard to imagine such serenity as treachery.

The sky darkens, and the muted greens of the fens mingle with the grey of the heavens. Varda's stars are pinpricks of white fire in the firmament, yet outshined by the pulsing dance of golden fireflies reflecting in the still water. Now is the time to rest, Findaráto decides, for surely this sight stirs even the broken heart of his dear companion.

He keeps his cousin in the corner of his eye. His face, once so expressive, is blank, but the horrid dullness in his eyes is gone. For a moment Findaráto is comforted, but even in his brief glance he can see a feverish gleam piercing through the mist of grief, and his heart tightens. All is not yet well with Turukáno.

Findaráto hums an old Telerin melody as they set up camp. Turukáno is silent. The river is narrow here, the ground solid at its edge for all the soft mossy islands within the lethargic current. Findaráto sets his bedroll on the banks, removes his boots and lets the river wash his feet.

In his mind, words of song and poetry spin in tandem with the firefly ballet, but before he can speak the lyric of his thoughts, the tranquility of the night is broken by the soft murmur of Turukáno.

"Ingo," he says, and Findaráto tries to ignore the flush of affection that comes as his dear friend uses that childish nickname, "I am—"

Turukáno stops. He looks away even as Findaráto turns to meet his gaze, but he can see a glimpse of the anguish within him. Findaráto reaches out his hand, gently placing it atop Turukáno's own.

"It is alright," Findaráto assures softly. "Speak. Whatever you have to say, I am here to listen."

"It is—" He bites his lip, and Findaráto cannot stop his heart from pausing in its steady beat. He was not like this before the Ice; he spoke first and loudest, firm in his resentments and his affections. Where has the man he knew so well retreated to, within this new and fragile Turukáno? Had he perished on the Ice alongside Elenwë?

Findaráto has always been too fond of his cousin, but he never paid such feelings much consideration. He and Turukáno are too near of kin; Turukáno was wed afore long; Findaráto himself found a pretty maiden of his own to court, among various pretty lords. But then came the darkness, the death, the flight. The Ice.

Amarië did not follow him. Findaráto does not blame her; they were not yet even betrothed, though it was a near thing. She was furious he chose adventure and rebellion over herself, and he resentful that she could not support him in his journey. And why would she, a Vanya, turn her back from the Valar she loved?

But Elenwë was a Vanya also. _She_ followed her husband, where even many faithful Noldo wives did not. Anairë, Nerdanel, Eärwen, Eldalótë, Ezellë, Quildalótië— _they_ , loving women all, stayed in Aman, unwilling to follow their husbands into Doom. But not Elenwë. The bond between her and Turukáno was so strong that she walked with him into darkness...and into death.

Findaráto, alone on the Ice, had oft envied Elenwë the warmth of her husband. Turukáno noticed, of course—he was too observant for his own good, sometimes, much to Findekáno's chagrin—but he assumed, wrongly, that he was missing Amarië. It was through Elenwë that he and Amarië had met, after all.

And yet Findaráto was often too occupied to walk with Turukáno and Elenwë. As Arafinwë's eldest son, he carried the burden of his father's legacy. _He_ was responsible for the third host of the Noldor, in Arafinwë's absence. As the child of Finwë's youngest son, Findaráto had never expected to be a leader. Now he was thrust into the position on the treacherous Helcaraxë, forced to watch as again and again he failed the people who had entrusted their lives to him.

Thus it was that Findaráto was not present when the Ice consumed Elenwë and nearly claimed her daughter as well. The horrors of that night rendered Turukáno senseless for days after, and he could not be separated from Itarillë until they set foot upon solid ground. Turukáno regained his strength slowly, and even now in the decades since, he was yet haunted by Elenwë's screams.

Or so Findaráto assumes. He was not there, and Turukáno was changed from that moment onward, speaking little and closing his heart to all.

After failing him once, Findaráto had refused to part from Turukáno. He left Artanis to lead their people, comforting and caring for Turukáno and Itarillë both. It was then that the seed of affection in his heart blossomed into something altogether more frightening. How close had he come, then, to waking Turukáno with a kiss, or sharing more than a tent, or offering to provide a distraction powerful enough to consume his mind with aught other than sorrow? His attempts to pry Itarillë from her father and into the arms of her aunt were not _all_ in the name of helping her adjust to her mother's death.

But Findaráto guarded his heart and helped Turukáno through his grief. Even now, some fifty years since Elenwë was lost, he still is quiet and mournful in his deeds, though laughing Itarillë had long since recovered from her trials. He dwelt in Nevrast, spending much time alone at the seashore, looking westward to Aman and happier times.

Indeed it was a surprise to find Turukáno arrived at Tol Sirion, asking that they explore the realms of Beleriand on their own. Findaráto had gladly agreed, hoping this was Turukáno's way of finding new life in Endórë. But throughout their long journeys, he remained quiet and morose, letting Findaráto take the lead and make up the chatter. Findaráto's heart aches for Turukáno, in every imaginable way, and he wishes nothing more than to help him heal the hurts of his past.

So: "Speak," he says again, reaching to turn Turukáno's anguished face to his. They are close, so close Findaráto can feel his breath upon his own face, so close that only a small motion could bring their lips together. And yet he resists: Turukáno is, at least, ready to talk, and for that he needs his mouth. "I am listening, Turno."

A shudder wracks Turukáno's frame as Findaráto reciprocates the use of childhood nicknames. Tears flow from his eyes, not frozen in an instant as they were on the ice, and Turukáno falls into Findaráto, sobbing into his chest.

Findaráto holds him close, holds him tight, overwhelmed with pity and love. He wishes Elenwë were here now to comfort her husband, bring him back to the joyful man he once was, be the wife that Findaráto cannot be. But Elenwë is dead, and Turukáno crying, and Findaráto is the one who is here to hold him.

After long the weeping abates, but Turukáno does not let go of him. Somehow they are tangled up together as they once were on the Ice, but here by Aelin-uial there is no ice, no danger, no fear, no daughters afraid to let go. Turukáno clings to him like he is fearful that Findaráto will vanish, but Findaráto will not, not ever. He clutches Turno tight, promising him without the words.

Findaráto holds him, his eyes still watching the fireflies flit above the waters. At last the words come to him in the right order, and he murmurs a verse in Turukáno's ear.

_The fireflies shine_  
_Still water reflects small lights  
_ _Stars gleam afar off_

Turno stills in his embrace. Emboldened, Findaráto continues:

_Comfort with heart's warmth_  
_Melting away old sorrows  
_ _Memory of ice_

"Ingo," he mumbles, letting go. Findaráto puts a finger to his lips, hushing him.

_The Meres of Twilight_  
_Mirroring past and future  
_ _Choose whom you will love_

It is as close to a confession as he can bring himself. Here he offers his heart; he hopes Turno will understand. What he does with this...

Turno looks into his eyes. Now his gaze is steady, but the turmoil lurks yet beneath.

"Ingo," he repeats, "I am—I have not been who I used to be."

Findaráto is breathless as he listens, hanging on to every word.

"You know why," Turno says. "You know the details of my misery. But before—" He stops, choosing his phrases carefully, as if every spoken word hurts to rip from his heart and voice into the world. "Before I came looking for you, I whiled away my hours by the sea. Looking west. As if that—as if that would bring her back."

Turno looks down. "I know you are wondering why I came looking for you. I wanted to—to clear my head. Uncloud my eyes. Really, it was—it was Itarillë."

Findaráto nods, but inside he is slowly losing hope. The last thing he wants to talk about right now is Turukáno's daughter. He does not want to think of her discovering his feelings for her father, or Valar forbid, her father's feelings for _him_ —

"She found me," Turno continues, sounding as miserable as Findaráto feels, "and she said—she asked me if I would ever look east, to our new home. Ingo, I am afraid. I fear she is forgetting Elenwë."

Findaráto changes his mind. The last thing he wants to talk about right now is Turukáno's wife. His _dead_ wife.

"How can she forget?" Findaráto says gently. "She was young on our journey, yes, but we have long memories. I remember the day Angaráto was born, and I was as young as she. Younger."

"I have tried to forget," Turno cries. "I have tried to find happiness. But she is gone, Ingo! Gone! And we are exiles— _she_ was an exile—will we ever be reunited again, even in Mandos?"

"She has not forgotten," Findaráto assures. "But she has moved on. Turno, you have spent these fifty years looking backward. Elenwë—" he chokes on the name— "she would not have wanted this for you. She was looking forward. Itarillë remembers this. You ought to, also."

Something changes within Turukáno. He slumps, relaxes—and then straightens. Is it Findaráto's imagination, or is some of the old determination lighting his eyes again?

"I cannot let her go so easily," Turno says, more to himself than to Findaráto, "not when I let her fall... But," he says before Findaráto can interrupt, "I must let myself rest. I must let _her_ rest."

"You miss Itarillë," Findaráto guesses. Turno says nothing, but he nods. "I understand. This journey has been good for you—for both of us. We can return now, if you wish. It has been nearly a year. I am sure that Itarillë misses you, too. You left her with Írissë, correct? I sent word to Artanis that she might spend some time with her female cousins. If she decides she wants to leave Doriath and visit her family for once, she may be with them. I am sure they are taking good care of Itarillë, but if you want to return—"

"Ingo," Turukáno interrupts, a smile twitching at his lips. "If you want to spend more time with me, you need only say so."

"I..." Findaráto flushes. There is the Turukáno he knows, perceptive and to the point. "I would like that, yes."

"I told Itarillë and Írissë that I would be gone for a year or more," Turno says. "They will be furious if I return even a day early. They take their time together as girls _very_ seriously."

"You are teasing me," Findaráto accuses, but Turno only looks at him sidelong, and Findaráto falls in love all over again.

He dares reach out again, putting his arm around Turno. He leans into the embrace, with more warmth—more intention—than Findaráto can remember him ever doing before.

"Ingo, your poems..." he murmurs. Findaráto waits for the rejection, resigned. Accepting.

"They are lovely, as always," Turno continues. "You—you always know just how to put things. Your words have brought me comfort more times than I can count. Thank you."

"I am glad," Findaráto says, his voice soft. "I have only ever wished you joy, Turno."

"Ingo, I—" Turno tenses, twisting to face him. His mouth is open slightly, as if... "Thank you."

Findaráto cannot hold his gaze for long. "You are welcome. Always."

"Not just for the poetry," Turno says. "For—everything. For your friendship. Your kindness. To me, to my family. For caring for me, for waiting so long, for staying by me even when I... I cannot say my thanks enough. Ingo. Ingoldo."

He says Findaráto's amilessë like it is a word of power. A shiver runs through Findaráto, and he finds his eyes drawn back to the man in his arms. His cousin. His friend. His Turno.

"I have been so self-occupied that I ignored your own griefs," Turno says. "You lost as much as I. Your father, your mother, your—Amarië."

 _Oh, fuck me,_ Findaráto thinks, and it is all he can do but scream the words aloud, for he means his vulgarity in every sense of the word.

"My parents yet live," Findaráto he says instead. He doesn't mention that much like Turno and his own mother, they may never meet again. "And I have made my peace with Amarië. She did not hold my heart, in truth." His gaze lingers on Turno's face. He tries to hold himself back, but the _wanting_... He does not know how Turno has remained ignorant for so long.

"Yes." Then again, perhaps not. Turno's eyes are half-lidded, and he is not surprised at Findaráto's words. "Still...I apologize. And...thank you."

"You need not be so grateful," Findaráto says, though his heart swells each time Turno says it. "I did what was right. We are friends, and—"

Turno interrupts him, leaning forward with an intense glare. "I mean every word, Ingo. Thank you. For everything. Everything you have done—everything you do—"

And suddenly it hits him, like a rock disturbing the still meres. Turukáno is not saying _thank you._ For once he is dancing around the subject like the fireflies above the water, not wanting to be the one who says it. Turno is not saying _thank you_ —he is saying _I love you._

Findaráto stares, deaf to Turno's continued confession of gratitude, and all his barriers fall down. He stops trying to hide what he feels, and though he is too shocked to act on it, he pours all his soul into the look he gives Turno, and he sees Turno pause. He does not look away. He sees what Findaráto is trying to say without the words, and at last he understands.

And so it is Turno who reaches forth and draws Findaráto's mouth to his, and Findaráto loses all the reservations he once had and kisses back so fierce that Turno lets out a muffled noise of surprise. He wraps himself around Turno, slides into his lap, grabs his hair and runs it through his hands, rocks against him, does all the things he's wanted to do for years and years—

And Turno makes the most delightful noises, of surprise and pleasure and agreement, and he's responding to Findaráto's every move, lifting him up and letting Ingo explore every hidden place on his body and holding him tight, so tight and strong—

Turno pushes him into the ground with another kiss, his hands drifting down, down, down— He's crying again, and Ingo thinks they should pause, for a moment at least, but he doesn't want this to stop, doesn't want Turno to sit back and realize in horror they've made a mistake, so it isn't until he is half-undressed that he scrambles into a sitting position and grabs Turno's hands before they finish undoing his belt.

"What are you—" Turno growls, and it's then that Ingo realizes that his eyes are red and his hands are shaking. Ingo can't stop himself from laughing, feeling lighter than air, like he could join the twirling waltz of the fireflies, even as he tries to bring himself back down and talk to Turno like adults.

"Are you—" he hiccups through his laughter, and he couldn't wipe the grin off his face if he wanted to— "are you alright, Turno?"

Turno is trembling. "Yes," he lies, and Ingo gives him a look.

"We can talk about this," Ingo says urgently. "We can figure it out, what this is, if it's what you—if it's what we want—" He knows what _he_ wants, has known for a long time. But this is new to Turukáno, a widower who's never been with a man, and he doesn't want to rush it. No, he _does_ , he's through with patience, but he doesn't want this to be something Turno regrets.

"I want this," Turno pleads, falling to his knees. _Begging._ "Ingo, please. I've been—you've been in my dreams for so long. Since—since the Ice, and I know it's wrong, so soon after her, but _you_ —I can't stop thinking about you. I want you. Ingo, _please_."

Ingo can't say no. "Come here," he says, leading Turno forward, helping him undo the last of his belt, slide his robes off all the way until he lies bare before him. Turno stares, undisguised desire causing him to tremble. Ingo kisses him again, pressing close, feeling how much Turno wants this. How much Turno wants _him_.

"I thought you'd never say." Ingo chokes out the words. "I've loved you for so long, Turno."

At that word, _love_ , Turno moans. Ingo leaves a trail of kisses down his body, peeling off his layers of clothing as he goes, until they are both naked by the water.

Ingo looks Turno in the eyes, wanting him to see just how much he relishes this, just how long he's waited for this. Turno is breathless, shining in the starlight, resplendent, and Ingo can wait no longer. He moves down to pleasure Turno with his mouth, and from then all is a whirlwind mirroring the frantic dance of the burning fireflies above the water.

* * *

He lies still on the riverbank, sprawled across Turno, breathing slowly in his slumber. He smiles as he sees Turno shift in his sleep, draw him closer, his fingers curled in golden hair.

A lone firefly drifts from its friends, landing on Turno's nose. Findaráto laughs, and is surprised to see that his body only twitches. He looks up, confused, and falls silent. The stars are blazing above him, brighter than the dim glow of the fireflies or the pale light emanating from the two bodies by the river.

 _This is a dream,_ he realizes, and he is watching himself and Turukáno from above.

Over the fens the fireflies flee suddenly, and the water rises up, lit from within. Findaráto stands back in awe as the water takes shape, becoming the form of a man, but he knows immediately that this is no elf or breathing creature. Findaráto is a Teler, his mother's son, and he knows this Vala well.

Findaráto prostrates himself before Ulmo. "Lord of the Waters!" he cries. "Too long has it been since I honored thee. To what do I owe the glory of thy presence?"

"Rise, Findaráto Ingoldo," Ulmo commands. Findaráto finds himself floating upward, high into the air, rising to the Vala's palm.

"Look," Ulmo declares, his voice rumbling like the crashing waves of a summer storm. And Findaráto beholds Aelin-uial, the fens in their twilit glory, and then beyond: the Falls of Sirion to the south, the expanse of Doriath to the north. He sees his brothers upon the plains of Dorthonion, his cousins guarding the northeast from invasion, the Laiquendi to the south in their green-leafed wood. They are at peace, watchful but confident, finding life in this new land.

He sees the Iron Mountains, the dread of Thangorodrim, the fires of Angband. He watches as armies burst forth, terrible in their multitudes, assailing the realms of the Eldar, destroying them. He beholds a darkness consume the land, spreading further to east and west, until it blackens the very waves and consumes even Valinor and reaches into the sky to pluck the sun and moon from their lofty paths.

Findaráto wails at the terror before him. "Lord! Lord!" he cries. "Why dost thou show me these things? Are they visions of the future? Is this the Doom of Mandos?"

All at once he is returned to the river's edge, a trembling figure bowed before the majesty of Ulmo. His fëa is bound again to his hröa; though he yet dreams, he inhabits the form beside Turukáno.

"Findaráto Ingoldo," Ulmo murmurs, soft like a babbling brook, gentle like the slow-moving fens before them. "I show thee a path of dread. I have not forgotten the Eruhini, even those in exile, and I am loath to abandon thee in an hour of need."

"Lord Ulmo, is this near? Must we face the Enemy again so soon?" Findaráto asks. If their watchful peace is broken _already_... He cannot stand to lose more. Not now, not after—

As if in response to his thought, Turukáno stirs. Findaráto is suddenly all-too aware that he is naked, exposed, all but caught in the act of fornicating with his cousin—before a _Vala_.

Ulmo blinks slowly, a wave rushing over his fana, splashing Findaráto in the face and startling him back to focus.

"Thou and Turukáno were guided to these waters for a reason, Findaráto," Ulmo intones. "Not to resolve thy...tensions, but to be guarded under my power. I give thee now a task."

Findaráto's sight is overcome once more with visions of places afar off. He sees caves, some spacious and lofty, others narrow and secure, deep and secret places beneath the hills. He sees elves, and creatures other than elves; he sees workers delving deep; he feels sweat upon his brow and an ache in his arm; he beholds a work well done. In flashes he sees treasuries, armories, many-pillared halls of stone; he sees ever-guarded gates, a rushing river, a secret opening to a guarded realm that is more grand and marvelous than he has ever before seen.

He wonders as a new scene appears: he beholds a people, familiar faces in a crowd, and yet not all familiar. He feels a weight upon his brow, and a lightness upon his chest as a bejeweled necklace is lowered over his shoulders. He catches a glimpse of a man, golden-haired and radiant, proud and wise, veiled behind a sheer waterfall.

"Father," he gasps, and starts forward, but with his step the man shimmers in the water. He reaches through the dripping curtain, and breaks the reflection of his own kingly visage.

"Thou hast a grand fate, Lord Findaráto," Ulmo booms, his voice now as deep and mighty as the greatest ocean depths. "There are places of hidden strength in these far lands, places that may be fortified and secreted, places that shall serve as a refuge for the lost and a stronghold of the brave. Find these places, and thou shalt become a mighty king, outshining thy father's legacy even as he basks in the light of Aman."

Findaráto's knees feel weak. He drops to the grass, back on the riverbank once more, overcome with awe and dread. His father is safe in Aman! Arafinwë is safe, forgiven, a lord—nay, a king! For not the first time, he feels the pull back home across the sea, the longing for the bliss of Valinor and the waves of Alqualondë and the warm embrace of his family.

But here is the Lord Ulmo before him now. He is not forsaken, not damned: he is charged with a task, promised greatness. And his eyes wander again to Turukáno beside him, relaxed and peaceful in his slumber. No, he does not regret his choices.

"I will do this, Lord," Findaráto vows, bowing his head before Ulmo. "I thank thee for thy faith in me."

A breeze washes over him, smelling of the sea-salt of his birthplace. When Findaráto raises his head, the sky blazes with the light of dawn, and Ulmo is gone.

* * *

The details of the dream are vague as he wakes. Findaráto recalls Ulmo's awe-inspiring form; a cave, perhaps many; a feeling of imminent doom.

The first thing he notices is the emptiness beside him. He had fallen asleep with Turno in his arms, but he is gone. A thin blanket covers his naked body, but there is no other sign of his companion. For a moment, his heart pangs. For some reason, he had believed that Turno would be there with him, to wake him with a k—with a—with...

Findaráto dresses, his thoughts muddled. What had happened last night? Ulmo's visit had clouded his mind, and he is unsure what had been real and what a dream. A Vala knows he and Turukáno had slept together! Or else, a Vala knows of his desires, and had planted them in his memory.

The fireflies are long gone. Findaráto cannot remember even his verses from the night before. Perhaps it _was_ a dream.

But here he is, and there is Turukáno returning from a morning of foraging. His eyes are bright as they have not been in years, and it is he who starts their conversation. He says nothing of the night before, but something— _something_ is changed within him.

"I want to see the mountains," he says, and Findaráto looks at him askance.

"We both agreed the mountains were quite tiresome after long!" he points out.

"Ah, that was then," Turukáno dismisses. "Let us travel north again. I am filled with snow-longing again."

Mountains, Findaráto thinks. A vision of caves and tunnels surfaces, and he considers the possibility. Perhaps such a hidden stronghold could be within a mountain...

"Very well," he says, but he does not say why. He puts a hand on his cousin's shoulder, and Turukáno stiffens ever so slightly.

Findaráto's heart skips a beat. Did he imagine that? Turukáno holds his gaze for too long, eyes burning, but when he blinks there is no sign of any fire between them. Findaráto can summon the memory of Turukáno's body, of the heat and love he could have sworn he had known, if only briefly...

But Turukáno says nothing, not of dreams nor love nor a night spent together, and so Findaráto stays silent. He has new passions to consume his thoughts now, the search for hidden caverns beneath high mountains, and his chest is but one more cave in which to guard the secrets of his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I swear every time I write shipfic these days I get a little closer to deciding not to cut to black when we get to the explicit stuff.
> 
> When listing off the names of the wives that remained, Finrod thinks of two that aren't from canon. Ezellë my OC for Maglor’s wife; Quildalótië is my OC for Curufin’s wife...perhaps y'all will see more of them in a future fic. Thanks as always to [RealElvish.net](https://realelvish.net) for those names!
> 
> The hardest part of this was probably the poetry. I hope I did a decent job with the haikus. They feel like a very Finrod thing to do.
> 
> I briefly mentioned that Galadriel is in Doriath at this time. Technically the Silm doesn’t say she has taken up residence in Doriath until Finrod starts working on Nargothrond, but it’s totally possible that is the point where she and Celeborn get married and not the point where they first meet. I am choosing to interpret that she accompanied Angrod to his first meeting with Thingol and visited Doriath more and more after that in order to be with Celeborn, until finally deciding to settle down there when they marry. It isn’t until later that Galadriel tells Melian about the Silmarils and then Thingol confronts all four of the Arafinwëans, when the brothers are visiting their sister, about the Kinslaying and the Quenya ban is instituted. There’s no evidence to support my version of this timeline, but there isn’t any to contradict it either.


	2. Turukáno

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turukáno is reborn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote most of this today and I'm honestly very impressed with myself for meeting a deadline for once! This concluding chapter is for Nolofinwean Week, Day 3: Turgon.
> 
> Since he has been in the Halls for so long, Turgon is a bit behind on both history and current events. However, they do get news in the Halls, so I settled for a balance: the dead [including Turgon] only know the things that are in Vairë’s tapestries that “clothe the Halls of Mandos” and tell the story of the world. For convenience’s sake, this will only include things that are in the published Silmarillion, give or take.
> 
> Also: I use “rebirth” and “re-embodiment” interchangeably in this fic, but just to be clear, my version of the elves coming back to life doesn’t involve any literal birth. In my interpretation, the Fëanturi grant each fëa a new hröa that matches their old, except without the “imperfections.” [Which is a fraught and imperfect concept, by itself, but I’ll go into more detail about what that means for disabled and scarred elves (like Maedhros) in another fic. I’m being serious about that, actually, I’ve already got it plotted out and it’s for a fic exchange event so I’ve got actually do it!] [ETA 9/1/19: this fic is now posted!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20398906/chapters/48384556)
> 
> Enjoy!

Turukáno lies on the soft grass, letting the warm light of the sun wash away the chill of death. His flesh is tender, pink, new, free of the scars and imperfections he had collected in Middle-earth. This new hröa feels loose on him, like an ill-fitting robe, and he is afraid that if he moves he will slip right out of his skin.

Instead he closes his eyes and tries to think of nothing at all but the sun. Arien pulls her chariot across the sky, lighting the world and bringing day to all the children of Eru. Turukáno remembers her first triumphant charge across the horizon, blazing in the east, at their backs, lighting them from behind as they mirrored her in their march to Lake Mithrim—

He twitches. No, there is pain in that memory: anger and grief, fresh from the bitter cold of the north and the hot blood of Arakáno still stinging the air with salt. With light came hope, and fire and fury, and a girl child who clutched his robe, flinching from the new blaze in the heavens. The sun came too late for her mother, who perished in the darkness of Helcaraxë.

Arakáno. Itarillë. Elenwë. They were but three of those from whom he had been sundered; the rest came later, each in turn: Ñolofinwë, Findekáno, Írissë, even the faithless Maeglin. Bright Eärendil, as the minstrels now sang: he soars in the sky alongside Tilion, forever distant from the grandfather he no doubt barely remembers. Turukáno dares not even acknowledge of the last name that rises, unbidden, to his mind.

Disgust at his own self-pity rolls through him, and Turukáno forces himself to sit upright, blinking up at the world around him. No, he will not lie here and wallow in the misery of the past any longer. He is born again, within a new hröa crafted in the image of the first, and there is hope for the future.

He rises to his feet, unsteady and graceless on the limbs that had once swept his wife off her feet, spun his daughter in the air as she laughed with her golden hair flying in the wind, raised a spear against the enemy, cradled his grandson gently in his arms. He feels like a stranger in his own bones.

Turukáno lopes around the clearing, settling his fëa into its new home. Slowly, he opens and closes a fist, relearning how to use it; he trips and bruises his knee on a rock. That's what does it, jolts everything into place with a shock of pain that delights him unexpectedly. His fëa had ached so deeply and so long without a hröa to dampen the sensation, that he had forgotten how easily a bump and scrape can refocus his attention.

He takes in his surroundings, carefully scanning the place where he had awoken from death. The halls of Mandos are vast, the walls of tapestry ever-shifting as history marches forward, endless and echoing. The solid _realness_ of this little wood grounds him. For the first time in years, he feels stable on his feet. For the first time in years, he has feet upon which to feel stable.

A little creek trickles between banks covered in ferns. Turukáno breathes in until he's dizzy, clean air filling his lungs. The last time he had smelled, breathed, _felt_ had been in the ruins of his collapsing tower, smoke and destruction all around. Here, beneath the open skies of Aman, he feels free.

Despite himself, a smile lights itself upon his face. He is here, in Aman; all is pardoned, all forgiven. Mandos had done its healing work, and Turukáno is released from the custody of the Valar, free to return to those he had lost.

The very thought makes him tremble and fall back to his knees. Itarillë. He knows not if she has returned to Aman; the tapestries told only of her journey west, before the Ban was lifted. And what of Tuor, her husband, mortal as he was? There was no exception made for him; even if he had been welcomed hither, several centuries had passed since his voyage, and men lived not that long. What if Itarillë had taken the path of Lúthien, and passed with him beyond whence Turukáno could follow?

And Eärendil, his only grandson! Even in the shrouds of Mandos the brightness of Eärendil's star pierces through to uplift the fëar of the dead. Turukáno is awed and proud of his descendant, though the story that wound its way to the Halls is incomplete. It is not in the tapestries, but rumor whispers that Eärendil slew Ungoliant, that he cast Moringotto's hugest dragon from the skies, that he wears the Silmaril upon his very brow—a feat not even Fëanáro had dared.

Yes, Eärendil Itarillion is mighty indeed, though in Turukáno's memory he is still a little boy with his mother's golden curls and his father's warm eyes. He knows not if Eärendil ever lands upon the shores of Aman, if he can embrace his grandson once more. But Elwing Dioriel, his wife—to think! Turukáno is the grandfather of Eärendil, parallel to Elwing's grandmother Lúthien! how Thingol would scowl at the thought of their lines uniting—yes, Elwing lived in Eldamar in a white tower that he had seen within the weaving of Vairë's tapestries. He could, at least, meet her and express his joy at her marriage to his grandson.

But their children... Turukáno knew of their twin sons, Elerondo and Elerossë. The peredhel are of strange fates: Turukáno is grateful that his grandson had chosen to be counted among the Eldar, and it grieves him that Elerossë had become a mortal man. He had become a noble king of Men, yes, while Elerondo is but the lord of a dwindled people who remain in the east, but he was a Man nonetheless. Elerondo might someday sail to Aman, where Turukáno could greet him, but Elerossë dwells upon his island until the day he passes from this world, never to return, and Turukáno has not the leave to visit.

To leave Aman...! Turukáno shudders at the thought. No, the first journey had been harrowing enough; he would not dare undertake it a second time, even by safer means than the Helcaraxë. Had it not been for his father and Findekáno, kings far greater than he had been, all the Ñoldor would have perished upon the Ice.

Ñolofinwë and Findekáno both had been reborn in past century. Turukáno anxiously awaits their reunion, for all he feels a failure as their successor in the position of High King. If he had not guarded Ondolindë with such pride, if he had led a final assault against Moringotto, if he had rallied the Ñoldor instead of shutting himself within the white walls of his hidden city—if, if, if! Turukáno shoves aside the guilt, knowing well that his father and brother would scold him for being so hard on himself. That was done, now, and he knows they have already forgiven him.

Turukáno had spoken with much of his family whilst they all dwelt in the Halls. Ñolofinwë and Findekáno left only a few decades previous, knowing Turukáno would be soon to follow, as he now did. But Írissë...

She is strong-willed as always, and though she is ready to move on from death and into new life, she refuses to leave behind her son. Turukáno is doubtful of Maeglin's ever healing or repenting enough to depart from Mandos, but he dare not mention such a thing to his sister. Not when Turukáno's own feelings surrounding his errant nephew are so fraught.

He had done his best to nurture the child, to care for him as one of his own, to support and love him—was it a failing on his part that Maeglin had gone so far astray? Maeglin refuses to receive visitors in his confinement in the Halls, save his mother and her only in recent years, so Turukáno has no idea what truly happened in the Fall of Ondolindë. He has heard only rumors, none of which are good. Had Maeglin wished to see him, Turukáno is unsure if he could face him.

His brother Arakáno has long since been released from Mandos. Turukáno presumes he dwells with their mother, but the thought of facing Anairë is harder even than facing Maeglin. She had been so angry at their departure...but that was over five hundred years ago. Has she forgiven them in the time since? If she has not, could she ever?

Sometimes, Turukáno feels like a child again, a little boy who wants only to curl up in his mother's lap and let her rock him to sleep. He felt that way cradled in Námo's bosom, healing after his horrible fall, but it was the Vala's charge to care for the wounded fëar. Anairë, for all she loves her sons, may yet find it too difficult to face the atrocities in which they had aided.

A wave of bitterness washes over Turukáno— _he_ is no Kinslayer, not like the Fëanárions, not like Findekáno!—but he lets it pass. Patience, forgiveness—these virtues he learned in Mandos. He could not have been healed without them, but even now his fëa is not wholly unmarred. Not even Estë's gentle enchantments could entirely erase the horrors he endured. Not when Turukáno was yet tormented by guilt of his many failures, chief of which was the pride that led him to lose Ondolindë, but not least of which was the choice to let Elenwë drown.

 _Your fault, your fault, your fault_ , hisses the chant in his head, and though Turukáno knows this is not true— _he_ did not cause the ice to break beneath her feet as she carried Itarillë, she _wanted_ him to save their daughter before her—he cannot stop it.

She was reborn long ago, has not wandered the Halls in centuries, but he knows nothing else. Does she live in their old home in Tirion? Has she returned to her family in Valmar? Does she know of Turukáno's deeds, his triumphs and his failures, his—

Turukáno leaps to his feet and begins to stride aimlessly, following the creek downstream. His thoughts are feverish as guilt clutches his heart. What does Elenwë know? What does she feel for him? Has she heard of his white city, his kingdom's fall, his friendship with mortal men, his affair with—with—

He forces himself to stop, staring into the creek as it rolls merrily along. His reflection in the water is noticeably less brilliant than it once was; this hröa is new, untouched by the Light of the Trees, and ever will be. But that is not all he sees in the shifting image of himself in the water: his sins are writ plain upon his face, his bond with his wife irrevocably frayed.

He is faithless. He is an adulterer. He is every wicked thing. For Turukáno is wed to a woman as bright as the stars, and yet he spent a night with another.

And not just any other. His cousin. Findaráto Ingoldo, son of his father's brother, as near in kin to himself as Maeglin was to Itarillë, though it was more than kinship that kept his nephew from his daughter. If he could so easily turn Maeglin from Itarillë, why do his thoughts stray so often to his own cousin?

And that night they spent together...! Under the stars, by the water, caught up in emotion: grief, fear, lust... But if this— _longing_ is only a feeling of the body, why does Turukáno's heart twist at the thought of seeing Findaráto again? Why had he acted as if nothing had happened between them?

Yes, the dreams they both received had fogged their minds somewhat, though at the time Turukáno thought that Ingo had slept soundly and that he alone received a message from Ulmo. But the clouds of uncertainty faded in time, and still Turukáno did nothing. Instead he had _pined_ , as he once had pined for Elenwë, yearning for Ingo's smile, his touch, the feeling of their bodies pressing together...

Turukáno buries his face in his hands. Does he love Findaráto? As a brother-in-arms, an ally, a cousin, a dear friend, yes—but in a carnal sense? as a lover? as a sweetheart, a _husband_ —

He curses himself at the very thought, for all it stirs his heart more than he wants to admit. No, he loves Elenwë! They are married, with a bond eternal, a bond unbreakable. They spent years together, created a child together, walked into exile together. But Elenwë did not set foot in Middle-earth, and Turukáno's life moved on, in great part _because_ of Findaráto.

He outlived his wife, and his once-lover too. Findaráto died before the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, aiding another impossible quest for love. Had he thought of Turukáno in his last moments? The tapestries depicting the fall of Felagund were oft-crowded by wond'ring fëar, Turukáno among them. His golden hair blazes against the evil shadows of Sauron's lair, his eyes fierce and the blood on his raiment the sign of his strength and will.

Turukáno has learned that he could love again, and the thought terrifies him.

Does he love Elenwë, still? He does not know. Perhaps she, also, has found another lover. Perhaps she spurns him for his part in her demise. Perhaps she has heard whispers of his affair with Findaráto—though, thankfully, the tapestries depicting that night at the river left out the more explicit details. And, it seemed, they had both kept the experience close to their chests. Not even Ulmo had reported the deeds to his kin.

The thought of Elenwë knowing both frightens and relieves him. Findaráto was re-embodied prior even to the War of Wrath, shortly before Turukáno's own death. Perhaps he has spoken to her, told her every vile detail. But most likely not; that would be unlike him.

As much as Turukáno cannot shake his wife from his mind, he cannot lose Ingo, either. He relives the night at the river as often as he dreams of the breathless evening in which Itarillë was conceived. More often. His love for both his wife and his cousin is fraught, perilous, if for different reasons. He cannot face such passions as they rival within him.

At least, not alone.

* * *

Turukáno cannot resolve himself enough to return to Eldamar. He is filled with turmoil, haunted by desires he cannot control and guilt he fears to assuage. But he is reborn now, with bodily needs beyond companionship, and he must find sustenance somewhere whilst he wanders the wilds of Aman.

The creek widens into a river, and Turukáno follows it, giving himself an aim. He will walk alongside it until he reaches the sea, or else it becomes impassable. He knows that Valinor lies across its shores, and he tells himself that he can always cross the waters if he decides to return to civilization.

In his youth he was somewhat of a forester, definitely an explorer. How long had he and Findaráto spent in these very woods, riding for days and enjoying the thrill of freedom and the unknown? It was what led him to see out his cousin in Middle-earth, so that they could explore Beleriand and, in the end, resolve their tensions (however temporarily).

The wilderness is a good place to think. Turukáno decides to think until he's thought himself out and made up his mind. Mandos allowed him time to consider all his past deeds, but now that he is granted a hröa once more, he finds that he must consider his future ones also.

And after all, no one knows he has returned to life. His family has waited centuries for his rebirth. They can wait a few days, or weeks, or months more.

Every night he spends by the river reminds him of that evening so long ago. He dreams of Findaráto: his hair, his smile, the curve of his body, the desperate openness with which he stared at Turno, so helplessly in love that Turno couldn't help but give in and kiss him. (He didn't dream in Mandos. He's not sure if this new gift is a blessing or a curse.)

The dreams never go past the kiss. If Irmo is watching him, the Vala is merciful enough—or cruel enough—to deny him that memory in so visceral a form.

Turukáno is dreaming again, nearly a month after his journeys began. He has nearly reached the sea, can smell the salt in the air and hear faintly the crashing of the waves. Another half-day's trek will take him there, to where he can watch the river spill into the ocean and where he must inevitably make his decision. The river is wide but calm, a manageable distance if he put all his strength and energy into crossing it.

But the way this dream is going, he doesn't think he will have the strength or the energy for such a feat on the morrow.

This dream has progressed beyond its usual stopping point. Ingo has just released him, licking his lips clean, but Turno is still shaking with desire.

"Ingo," he whines, and he doesn't even feel self-conscious. Ingo gives him a smile so _wicked_ that a new flush moves through him, and Turno can't help himself. He launches himself on top of his cousin, pinning him to the ground with a kiss that ends with them both gasping.

Turno's belly is aflame with mixed lust and guilt; even as he makes love to Ingo, he thinks of Elenwë in her ecstasy. Ingo is just as much of a Vanya as Turno himself, both sharing the blood of their grandmother Indis, but Ingo is the one blessed with her golden hair. With those pale blond locks splayed upon the ground, Turno beholding his ravished form, he could be Elenwë if Turno didn't focus too hard.

And yet he _feels_ so different: he is curvy, yes, but not like a woman (though his nipples are just as sensitive), and _inside_ —oh yes, this is _quite_ different, but no less pleasant. No, this goes beyond simple pleasure. This is—this is—

The dream changes, and now the deed is done, and they are both spent. Turno has always known Ingo is a cuddler, since well before the Ice had brought them closer, but somehow he is shocked when Ingo wraps himself around him when their lovemaking is through. He kisses Turno sleepily, happiness all but radiating from him with golden light, and Turno clings to him as his breathing slows and he falls into a peaceful slumber. Turno cannot help himself from smiling.

He has needed this. He has needed this for a long time.

But now that the moment has passed, Turukáno's guilt overcomes him again. He lies still as he can, trying not to cry as he thinks of how deeply he's betrayed Elenwë and himself. Itarillë can never know— _no one_ can ever know. He wishes _he_ could unremember, undo what has been done...for all he felt pure bliss as he fucked Findaráto, for all he never wants to let go of the sleeping elf in his arms, he knows that what he has done is _wrong._

He gives in to tears, shaking gently, wishing Ingo would wake and comfort him the way he'd comforted him earlier that night. But despite his wants, he tries to hold still as to not disturb Ingo even as he weeps.

The grass beneath him is soft and cool, more real than it's ever felt in a dream like this. The night sky is peculiarly bright—surely the moon had been only a sliver that night, but the stars are drowned out tonight—but such atmospheric sensations fall away as Turukáno is overwhelmed with sobs, crying out Findaráto's name: "Ingo, Ingo, I'm sorry," he mumbles, though the one he should be apologizing to is Elenwë. And then—

"Shh," a soft voice says, and it's too warm and close and real to be a dream, "shh, Turno, it's alright. I'm here. I'm here."

Either the dream has shifted into fantasy instead of reliving that night (for Ulmo's enchanted sleep was too deep for Findaráto to wake then, and soon Turukáno succumbed to it as well) or Ingo is really here, right now, by the river in Aman. But that is impossible: there is no way he could have found Turno, so he must yet be dreaming. Or, perhaps, all his time in Middle-earth was the dream, a warning for what is to come, and he is waking up for the first time only now.

But if he is waking by the Meres of Twilight, why are he and Findaráto both fully clothed? And if it's still a dream, why is the sky so different, and why does this river sound so different than the one in Beleriand?

Turno struggles to sit upright, drinking in the sight of his beloved Ingo, his face lit and his pale hair gleaming silver in the moonlight. Ingo is holding him, stroking his hair, tears budding in his own eyes—Turno _feels_ him, knows it's him, though he doesn't know how.

Ingo is whole and pure again, no mark of Endórë upon him: he, too, is reborn. He is resplendent, beautiful, and the gentle love in his touch and his eyes is far, far too much for Turukáno.

"Ingo," he cries, and before Ingo can respond, he kisses him, kisses him fierce because he doesn't know what else to do, kisses him tender because he's been missing him for so long, kisses him like he never wants to stop, and Ingo is kissing him back in the same hungry, desperate way, his tears mingling with Turno's own on their cheeks and on their lips.

They're like this for an hour or more, wordless and exploratory. They don't take their clothes off, don't make love, don't do anything other than just touch and kiss each other. This reunion is long overdue—it's been so long, and the last time they spoke, before Turukáno retreated to Ondolindë, was with secrets guarded in their hearts.

This is open, honest, needy. This is without pretense, without reservation, without hesitation. And this is, Turno realizes, _right_. This is what he wants now—to be with Ingo, circumstances be damned.

At last they speak, just as the sun is rising and this night at the river is ending.

"I..." Turno whispers. He doesn't know what to say. "Thank you," he says instead—and he sees Ingo's eyes light up.

"Thank _you_ ," Findaráto repeats. "I know what you mean by that, Turno."

Turno blinks. "I...what?"

"I love you."

Turno stares, realizing only then that Ingo is right, that every time he spoke those words it was a mask of his true intent. "Oh."

"And Turno—" Ingo chokes up, burying his face in Turno's shoulder. " _Thank you_. I love you too. I don't want to keep it to myself anymore. I've loved you for so long, Turno, and I've loved you despite everything. Is this what you felt with Elenwë, when you married her? Because it's not what I felt with Amarië."

Turno flinches at the mention of his wife, and Ingo bursts into fresh tears. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he weeps, "I know you're bound to her. I know you love her still. I understand that you have to be with her—no, that you want to be with her, that you'll choose her, but I can't lie anymore, to you or to myself. I love you, and I'm not going to hide it anymore."

"This is not what I felt with Elenwë," Turno says hoarsely, and Ingo leans back, understanding despite the hurt apparent in his every move. Turno's heart twists, because that's not what he meant: "No, no—Ingo, this is different. Elenwë and I were young, we were foolish. We were in love, yes, but we had no idea what it was to suffer. What it was to live. I've suffered with you, I've lived with you, and yet—you're still here, you want me despite that, you love me anyway."

Ingo looks up sharply, his mouth hanging open slightly, and Turno continues, "Elenwë and I have a bond, and—and we'll have to figure things out, not just with her but with—with our families—I know Findekáno and Russandol made things work, somehow—but Ingo, Ingo I love you too."

"You...do?" Ingo is shocked, despite the kisses, despite the vulnerability, despite it being his name Turno called in his sleep and not Elenwë's.

Turno reaches for him and kisses him again, long and sweet and slow. Ingo responds with an intensity that stirs something deep within Turno, something he's never felt, at least not quite this way.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs when the kiss ends. Before Ingo can protest that he has nothing to apologize for, he says, "I'm sorry for pretending nothing happened, that night at the river. I wish—I don't know what we could've done, but anything would've been better than that. When I heard of your death..."

"No, no, don't," Ingo hushed. "We'll speak of darkness later. The sun is rising now, love, let us be happy."

 _Love_. No one had ever called him _love_ before; Elenwë had preferred his name, or variations on it. Turno stared at him, unable to speak of anything at all, dark or not.

"No more denying pleasure," Ingo whispered, wrapping himself all around Turno, "no more denying joy. No more pretending we aren't hopelessly in love with each other."

"Never, never," Turukáno agrees fervently. They kiss again, and this time they let desire take control, and this is not the impassioned, fervent fucking of two guilty souls, but the sweet and tender coupling of lovers reunited at long last. Turno loses himself in sensation, in love, in _Ingo._

When they finish they follow the river hand in hand, reaching the sea together. Turukáno breathes in the clear air, listens to the crying gulls, and Findaráto leans against him, humming that same Telerin song he'd hummed so many years ago. As it did then, it brings Turno joy, but this time it is unbridled. This time he lets himself feel it.

He and Ingo talk for a long time, wandering the shore until it is night again. Turno confesses his fears about his family, about everything, and Ingo soothes him. Turno weeps to hear that Itarillë and even Tuor are present in Aman, living happily in Tirion, receiving Elwing and Eärendil at times. He is glad to hear that Anairë has given Ñolofinwë another chance, that Findekáno and Arakáno are safe in their mother's house, that Ñolofinwë is happy to let Arafinwë rule while he rebuilds his relationship with his wife.

In turn, he gives news of Írissë and Maeglin, still abiding in Mandos, as well as Ingo's brother Aikanáro, who still grieves for his mortal lover. The Ñoldor are still recovering from the traumas of the past, and many still reside in not only the Halls, but also in Middle-earth, including Ingo's sister Artanis, Turno's successor as High King, Ereinion Gil-galad (whose claim to the throne is unclear even in to the Valar, though his leadership has brought only good), and his great-grandson Elerondo.

"You may actually be able to visit Elros," Ingo says thoughtfully. "The folk of Tol Eressëa pass freely between Andor and Aman. I am sure the Valar would give you leave." Turno smiles, and new hope enters his heart.

He is not surprised to hear that Amarië has moved on from Findaráto, and wonders at Ingo's suspicion that she and Elenwë have become lovers—though he cannot be sure, he clarifies, and that it is only natural that Elenwë and Amarië, ever good friends, would become closer in the absence of their menfolk. But the possibility that the situation could resolve itself with a simple swap of couples is poetic as well as relieving, and Turno prays it is true.

"There is one thing I don't understand," Turno admits. "How did you find me? I am glad you did, but I had been keeping myself apart for a reason. I did not think anyone knew of my rebirth."

"I've been dreaming the same dream for a month," Ingo explains. "Irmo sent me memories of our first night together, at Aelin-uial."

"He must have sent them to me, also," Turno murmurs. "I had wondered..."

"Like you, I thought to deal with them by isolating myself." Ingo reaches over to kiss him on the cheek absently, curling their fingers together. "The Valar must approve of our relationship, for them to guide us together. In truth, I've been restless since my rebirth. I was not permitted to fight in the War of Wrath, and with no kingdom or quests I soon grew restless. One can only walk beneath the trees of Eldamar with one's father for so long and before being overwhelmed with boredom. I've been exploring the wilds, like we used to, searching for—something."

Ingo smiles, then, so soft and loving that Turno can't help but cut him off with a kiss.

"No, stop," Ingo laughs, pushing him away gently. "I'm not done. There's been...a hole, inside me, for lack of a better term. I wanted something to fill it—and I don't mean your cock, don't snigger like that, we're adults!"

"I was just reborn a month ago," Turno says innocently. "Technically, I'm an infant."

Ingo rolls his eyes. "You're certainly acting like a child." He turns serious again, and murmurs, "I think I've found what I'm missing, though."

Turno _melts_. They kiss again as the sun sets like fire in the ocean, and make love on the sands beside the river's mouth.

They aren't sure how this rediscovered love will work, here in Aman where the laws and customs of their people are stricter and their exceptions led to things like the enmity between Fëanáro and Ñolofinwë that began all these troubles in the first place, but they are certain that it _will_ work. The Valar have brought them together, and after all, if Finwë had never wed Indis, neither of them would ever have been born.

In the bliss of Aman, there is no war and danger waiting to tear them apart. They have both died in agony, and yet here they are, living and whole.

They wash in the river, and turn back to the mainland, ready to face the world. And if they ever need an escape, a respite from the intricacies of forming a new life together, Turukáno and Findaráto will always have the river.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was originally going to rewrite the same night from Turgon's POV for this chapter, but I was working on some worldbuilding about what happens after everyone is reborn and I came up with this idea instead. Plus, I managed to incorporate the juicy bits of the scene from chapter 1, so it's the best of both worlds!
> 
> I headcanon that Finrod actually still uses his Sindarin names in Aman, because his time in Beleriand changed him significantly, but he still likes the nickname Ingo, and besides they haven’t gotten to that conversation yet. Turgon, living in Gondolin where they spoke primarily Quenya (though Sindarin was definitely spoken there also; see: Tuor being able to converse with them easily before he had time to learn a new language), has always preferred his Quenya name.
> 
> For more on Amarie/Elenwe, check out [this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20708267), which I see as taking place in the same universe as this one.
> 
> Thank you for reading! I really, really love these two and I'm sure I will return to them again sometime :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and commenting!  
> You can find me on tumblr [@arofili](http://arofili.tumblr.com/).


End file.
